


X's and blades

by livinginadaydream (orphan_account)



Category: Disney RPF, Jonas Brothers
Genre: Angst, Gen, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-25
Updated: 2010-06-25
Packaged: 2017-10-12 17:59:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/127529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/livinginadaydream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The substitution of pain and pressure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	X's and blades

There's an 'x' drawn on the inside of your wrist with black, permanent marker. You tell anyone who asks that it's because you want a tattoo, but you obviously can't get one, not while everyone you know still knows you. The truth is, it's a substitute, and you pretend it hurts as you drag the marker across the skin. At first, you're surprised that it actually stings a little, maybe because of the acid. After the second time, you're just grateful.

It's the lamest thing you've ever done. At least no one will send you to a therapist over it.

People stop questioning it. You're allowed your stupid, pathetic release in quiet.

After doing it every day, sometimes three times a day depending on how stressed out you were, you start to forget the meaning behind it, and when you realize, you stop for a while until it gets its meaning back.

Sometimes you just feel like crying. You don't know why.

No one has ever done anything to really hurt you, but you hate them anyway.

Frustrated and tired, you snap at anyone who smiles at you, because whatever gave them the right to be happy when you had reasons to be and weren't.

There are songs you sing to, heavy, and booming, that make life feel easier for a few minutes. Like those sharp notes regulate your blood flow better, and the lack of oxygen in your lungs as you blast out every last air molecule is exactly the right amount of oxygen for you.

There are blades in your razor. You try to take them out using a pen from off your desk, but the blade just breaks into little pieces, not even fully detaching. You can't use it. So you throw it in your trash can and brush the washcloth you brought to clean up with, onto the floor when you climb into bed.

If you really wanted to do it, you would have found a way.

But the next day, you still want to.

You wonder why you don't just do it.

For some reason you can't.

The day after that, you're moving something that weighs a little too much and has an edge to it, and a piece of skin gets ripped off your finger. It stings, and you curse silently before washing it off and getting a band-aid.

If you can't even handle that, what makes you think you can handle a blade?

You don't know, but you still think you'd be willing to try if you had a clean one, loose, and ready for use.

But you don't. So nothing happens. You're probably just thinking about it so that you can feel special, like your feelings are any more important than anyone else's. They're not. You remind yourself of that. It doesn't change anything; you still wish you had a blade, that you could really see if you had the guts.

You know that you don't, that if it was in your hand, you'd drop it into the trash can just like the one you couldn't have used even if you wanted to.

There are certain people and certain things that make life worth living, which is why you only want to hurt a little, not die. Sometimes those things push you even closer to the edge. Nothing makes sense when that happens, and you just have to wait the confusion out until the sun starts glowing again.

It never burns bright for you. You're used to the dim light. You'd probably freak out if it ever got brighter.

That's how your whole life is. You put yourself through these things, and you say you hate them, but you still do it to yourself, and there must be a reason.

Stop whining.

That command works for about ten seconds.

There isn't anything you can do.

Stop.

You don't want to.

Make a change.

Like what? How? There aren't any answers.

-

Those strange looks you once got for saying you wanted a tattoo, you now get double-fold because you requested a curtain to change behind this tour. It happens, of course, and the first night you play, you get your own section to change. No one really questions you, and you know why.

It's the way Kevin always smiles at you. The way he never says anything stupid around you anymore, like you're a stranger who wouldn't get it anyway. He always ducks his head when he turns to walk away, the only sign of disappointment as he straightens up as he gets farther and farther away from you.

It's the way Joe can't look at you for more than a second at a time when he used to stare at you. The way he never smiles at you anymore, like he knows you _too_ well now, like you don't know _him_ at all, like you would misinterpret everything he used to do. He pointedly keeps his hands off of you, and always stands on the other side of Kevin, forcing your brother between you, the millionth way he tells you he's hurt by this.

It's because you stopped pretending the ink did anything to help. Because you stopped being afraid. Because you took a blade from a box-cutter lying around in the prep room, leaving money enough to buy at least ten more in its place. Because as you drug it across your skin, you forgot you were supposed to hide it. Because you couldn't help but be a little proud when no one said anything, be proud you had that kind of power.

It's because of the red lines.

-

Sometimes you just wish that you didn't exist. A few times now, when you were sitting on your bed while planning out what to do next, you would find your mind had closed itself off, just for a moment, and then suddenly you had been wondering what it would be like just to not _be there_. The logical part of your mind had told you that it wouldn't _be_ like anything. Somehow, though, when you'd imagined it, it kind of felt like floating, weightless, and it was nice for a few seconds, and everything seemed okay until you realized you were right where you were thirty seconds ago, on a bed, in the real world, and you did, in fact, exist.

You've been keeping your blades in your insulin kit, and sometimes when you open your kit up for the blades, and not your syringe, you find it kind of funny, and if you weren't about to slice through your skin a little, you probably would have even laughed. That pretty much says it all though, doesn't it? That you keep your life in the same bag as your death, and sooner or later, you know, you won't be able to discern which is which, and even now the lines are blurred.

You haven't even been sure whether or not what you're doing can be considered cutting, though in your head, you no longer shy away from calling it that where before you used to let your thoughts trail off as if you really weren't doing anything at all. That edge breaking your skin hadn't been real. You've heard people, in movies at least, a reliable source, obviously, say things about cutting deep, cut deep or don't. You haven't figured out how deep that has to be, but you've been fairly certain you haven't reached that point, and when you don't bleed enough for it to smear across your light-toned skin, you feel a little guilty for not giving it a better shot, for trying one more time, and failing again because it still only bled as much as it did the first time, and by the third time you put the blade to your arm, you chicken out before someone comes to find you. Even though you made it all that time with only one person so much as giving you a questioning look, and they didn't even call for a real response, you still get a little nervous at the prospect of someone catching you in the act. You've gotten shaky, before, actually, when you've cut it so close, too close, someone walking in literally a second after you've hidden your blade away.

For the past couple of weeks, you've only cut one day, on Tuesday. Last week it was only once, and this week, twice. You haven't been cutting as frequently, but the strokes like a brush to canvas, have been longer, and deeper. Your scars have been forming nicely from the previous times, and you've wondered now and again how long it will take for them to fade, but you had decided, maybe even before the first time, that you wanted to keep them for as long as you lived. That was part of the reward, after all, wasn't it? The memory that you had enough guts to do it, that you were strong enough for yourself to put your weakness ahead of everyone who gave a damn whether or not you hurt yourself.

It's a sordid affair. That's part of what makes it appealing. People are going to learn that sooner or later, or not. Whichever it is, you've never been the only one. There are so many others like you, and you've heard about them. You've never met anyone, but there must be somewhere... You've told yourself that countless times, but you're okay with the fact that you've never believed yourself, that you're alone.

No matter what, you always feel alone.


End file.
